


Thou Art Fairer Than The Evening Air

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Lewis Summer Challenge 2015, Lewis is a BAMF, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 00:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4585818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis doesn't like it when people treat James badly . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End Of A Bad Week

**Author's Note:**

  * For [divingforstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/divingforstones/gifts).



> Huge thanks to Owlbsurfinbird for being such a kind and helpful BR - this fic is so much the better for your input.
> 
> Written for the Lewis Summer Challenge 2015.
> 
> Set somewhere around Series Six/Seven.

James can tell Lewis is building up to say something. It’s obvious, even though James has had four—no, five—pretty strong beers over the course of the evening at his governor’s house, and his usual reasonably sharp (if he does say so, himself) detecting capabilities feel more than a little blunted. Lewis has had just as much to drink though, which is probably why he’s being less subtle than usual.

They’ve just got through the shittiest case James can remember in a long, long time: four teenagers dead—bright, happy kids, all of them—all friends of a fifth—Hannah Morrison—now profoundly traumatised and in foster care. How could she be anything other than traumatised, when she finally worked out that it could only be her own parents who were killing off her friends, one after the other, in a pitiless, twisted attempt to safeguard her ‘purity’?

Lewis frowns and rubs the back of his neck and James almost says, _out with it, sir,_ just to get it over and done with. But whatever Lewis has to say, James is pretty certain he’s not going to like it much, and he’s dealt with quite enough stuff he doesn't like over the last five days; he’s in no hurry for more. The beers have brought a merciful sort of semi-numbness, as if he’s underwater in an icy sea and can’t quite hear or see or feel things clearly anymore. But just beyond the numbness, at the edges of it, he can still feel ripples of the panicky jitteriness: that over-caffeinated, under-rested, absolutely nothing left to give, feeling. 

That feeling of being seasick with exhaustion and fear is dissipating but it’s not gone yet, and he knows that if he weren’t where he is right now—slouched on Lewis’ sofa, next to his boss, beer in hand—he’d be in his own flat, alone, and in a significantly worse state. Lewis can be an irritable sod, and he works them both bloody hard, but he’s also kind and solid, and even though he can be tough on James at times, he’s never cruel. James would choose Lewis’ sofa over pretty much anywhere he can think of, as the place to start to recover from a case this bad.

Lewis takes a substantial swig of beer and looks carefully at the honey-coloured liquid remaining in his glass. He sighs and shakes his head. “I hate it when it’s youngsters. Bloody stupid waste.” He looks as old and worn out as James has ever seen him.

“I know.” What else can James say? He can’t stand it when a case really gets to Lewis like this. He wants to be the same safe, soothing presence for Lewis as his boss is for him. Not that Lewis would ever admit that he needed such a thing. James is so caught up in trying to think what he could possibly say that might help, that he just doesn’t see it coming. 

“James, man. You have to find someone. Y’know; someone to take your mind off work. Someone to look after you. God knows, it can be a bloody awful job at times, even _with_ someone.” 

He’s _got_ to be kidding. Not this again. James turns and glares at him, and Lewis has the good grace to look a bit embarrassed. “Yeah—I know. I said I wouldn’t talk about it again.”

“Yes, you did.”

Lewis sighs. “It’s just . . . cases like this. I worry about you.”

“Please don’t.” He knows that sounds . . . _shit_. He has another go. “Thank you, but it’s not necessary. I’m fine.”

Lewis isn’t stupid. Going on the look he gives James, he doesn’t believe that for a moment.

“I’ll _be_ fine, in a day or two. I just need a weekend off. Some sleep.”

Lewis shakes his head decisively. “You should be in a relationship.”

He makes it sound so bloody easy. Ha. “It’s not that simple, is it, sir? I can’t just conjure up a partner, because it’d make you feel better.” _Fuck_. That came out a lot sharper than he’d intended. Lewis looks at him steadily; says nothing. 

_Okay_. “Or make _me_ feel better. I _have_ tried.” James feels the exact moment when the conversation slips beyond his control.

“Tried what?”

“To date. People.” _People? Jesus. What else is he going to date? Golden retrievers?_

Not surprisingly, Lewis isn’t convinced. “Not in living memory, you haven’t!”

This is the beer’s bloody fault. It’s going to be very hard to shut this conversation down now, with Lewis sitting there, very much more alert than he was five minutes ago. And James knows it’s a bad move, even as he’s opening his mouth; he knows that it can only end in misery and embarrassment; but it seems that the beer has worked its disastrous, tongue-loosening magic, so instead of going for a smoke, or offering to do the dishes, James sucks in a breath and thinks _right then: in for an aureus, in for a sestertius_ , and huffs out a humourless kind of laugh, because chucking in a bit of pissed Latin is definitely going to make everything okay. 

“Actually, I went on a date a couple of months ago. That week at the end of April when you were up in Manchester.”

Lewis stares at him. He clearly hadn’t seen that coming, which feels like a small victory, of sorts. Of course Lewis wants to know all about it. 

“Really? Why didn’t you say? What happened? What was she like?”

It’s on the tip of James’ tongue to makes some prickly remark about heteronormative assumptions and then change the subject (like he should have done ten minutes ago), but he’s too drunk and too knackered, and to be honest, he just can’t be arsed any more. “ _He’s_ a professor of medieval and renaissance English. Specialises in courtly poetry.”

There’s a beat of a pause while Lewis processes this new information, then his face breaks into a big, warm smile. “Does he, now? Well, he sounds right up your street—medieval Oxford type, like that. You’d have plenty to talk about.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He’s regretting this already. He’s spent enough grim evenings over the last two months, reliving that fucking awful night. The thought of having to tell anyone . . . even Lewis, is—

“Professor, you said? Must be a bloody high flyer, being a professor at your age.”

“Not my age. Hugo’s in his mid fifties.”

Lewis frowns; surprised. “Bit old for you? A bloke in his fifties? Is that why you didn’t see him again?” 

_Interesting_. James would have bet anything that what Lewis would object to most would be Hugo’s posh name and all the privilege it implies. It seems like it’s never occurred to Lewis that someone James’ age might find older men interesting or attractive. Whereas for James, although he has dated some people around his age, he’s always felt he’s got more in common with people older than him—old soul and all that.

“No, it wasn’t that. The age thing wasn’t the issue.”

Lewis swirls the beer round in his glass. “Oh. Right. What _was_ the issue, then?”

What on earth can he say to Lewis, that won’t make him look as pathetic as he feels? God knows. James knocks back the rest of his drink and carefully places the empty glass on the coffee table in front of him. “He was . . . this is going to sound . . . he was very unpleasant to me.” James shrugs, trying to look less bothered than he actually feels. “Just . . . unpleasant.”

The lines across Lewis’ forehead deepen, as he frowns. “James?” He looks puzzled; concerned. “What did he do? He didn’t . . . did the bastard hurt you?” Lewis’ voice is soft, now; sober. It makes James’ throat tighten so much, it’s difficult to swallow.

“No. Not like that. Not physically.” 

“Like _what_ then, James? Will you tell me?”

He knows he can say no. For all that Lewis is clearly anxious to understand what happened, James trusts that if he says no, Lewis won’t push it. But he also knows that Lewis will fret. It still horrifies James that over the years, Lewis has acquired a collection of worries and concerns about him: Crevecoeur; James’ family; his lack of friends and relationships. James never intended for Lewis to worry. Truth be told, at the beginning it never occurred to him that Lewis _would_ worry. In James’ experience, as long as the work’s getting done, most DIs tend to be oblivious to their sergeants’ inner turmoil and empty lives—thank God. So it was a shock—mortifying, really—when it became apparent that Lewis noticed personal things about James: noticed and worried.

What’s even worse is that James’ attempts to remedy the situation, by trying to be even more guarded about personal matters than comes naturally, has backfired. He’s learned through unintentionally making a complete bloody mess of things on several occasions, that in the absence of solid facts, Lewis seems to worry about him even more. Baffling though it is to James, his boss clearly cares about him. Which is an unexpected comfort—and a burden. Now James understands that Lewis cares, he feels he can’t be as neglectful of himself and his own happiness as he’s often been in the past—because it’ll affect Lewis. Basically, in order to look after Lewis (which has somehow become rather a priority for James), he has to look after himself. Robbie Lewis is a kind, decent man— _and_ a clever git.

James sighs. The bottom line is that if he doesn’t tell Lewis at least some of the details of his date with Winters, it’ll probably make Lewis worry even more than if he does tell him what happened. And although James thinks that the creases across Lewis’ forehead make him look distinguished, he doesn’t think his boss will thank him for adding any more.

“I answered a small ad in the Guardian—I’d been looking at them for a while, but Hugo’s was the first profile I’d seen for someone local—male or female—that looked interesting. We emailed a few times, then spoke on the phone. I liked his voice, and his work sounded intriguing, and I thought, why not? Should have known it was doomed to failure when he said where he wanted to meet for dinner.”

Lewis looks at him, questioningly, but says nothing.

“He’d booked a table at La Mûre.” 

Lewis raises an eyebrow. “Really? Go on then, surprise me; tell me there wasn’t an over-paid, under-worked poser in sight.”

“No can do. You’d hate it. It’s all air-kissing and fiddly food. No beer to be had, at all!”

Lewis looks scandalised. “Not really your kind of place, either, I wouldn’t have thought?”

It’s inexplicable, but it soothes James a little, just knowing that Lewis understands this about him. 

“God, no. It was awful.”

“I don’t understand why you agreed to go there in the first place. Couldn’t you have suggested somewhere a bit nicer?”

“He’d already booked the table.”

Lewis frowns. “What? Without consulting you?”

“Yep.”

“Bit of a presumptuous sod, if you ask me.”

“Yep, again.”

Lewis has obviously already taken against Winters; which somehow makes what’s to come just a little more bearable.

“Anyway, we met at the bar there, and it was obvious straightaway there was no chemistry, but I thought, there’s no reason why we couldn’t have an interesting conversation. I thought it could still be an enjoyable evening.”

He must have got caught up in his thoughts, because at some point Lewis gently pats him on the arm. “What happened?”

He can still feel the ghost of Lewis’ touch, as he starts again. “The meal wasn’t too bad. They keep the restaurant really dimly lit though; I think so you can’t actually see how little food is on your plate. But it wasn’t too bad. Hugo did most of the talking. He’s got a new book coming out, so he had a lot to say about that. Anyway, we got to the end of the meal and there was a bit of an awkward silence, and then he said that he owed it to himself to say what he was going to say. Then basically, he gave me a very detailed critique of my appearance, and . . . well, let’s just say, he didn’t sing my praises.”

James _hates_ this. He knows it’s pathetic—knows that it shouldn’t bother him. Jesus—if he can face down murderers and psychopaths, surely he should be able to cope with some bloke he barely knows, telling him he’s never going to be Oxford’s next top model! It’s shallow and vain and it really shouldn’t matter to him.

Lewis looks completely baffled. “I don’t understand. What the hell did he say?”

“I won’t give you all the tedious details, but the headlines were that I’m too tall, too pale, too skinny. Not good-looking enough. Not sexy enough. Oh, and my suit was dated. He said he was embarrassed to be seen with me.” _That he couldn’t imagine how any man could fancy me._

“No!” 

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding. You must be. You’re having me on?”

“Sadly, I’m not.” He tries for a self-deprecating smile, a sort of _I know I’m over-reacting_ kind of thing; but his face won’t fully cooperate. He’s aware Lewis is staring at him, like he just can’t make sense of it, but James can’t look at him. And how could Lewis make sense of it, when he doesn’t have any of the information that would help him? He doesn’t know that James has _always_ been the tallest and the skinniest and the palest, wherever he’s found himself: school, university, seminary. And that even at his most introverted and self-conscious, when he would have given just about anything to be able to blend into the crowd—it’s never been an option: he’s always stood out. 

And it’s not as if an all-male public school and doing a theology degree and studying to be a priest has helped with any of this! When he can think about it rationally, which obviously he can much more these days compared to when he was a teenager, he knows he’s okay-looking. He knows that there are people who have found him attractive. But it doesn’t take much to send him right back to being that awkward, gangly adolescent boy, who just wants the ground to swallow him up. All it takes is a professor of courtly poetry (irony of ironies!), giving him a bad review. 

Eventually, Lewis shakes his head. 

“Well, he must be blind, or a bloody idiot—or both.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“I’m not being kind! I’m being honest. You’re an attractive man! I mean, look at you.” James glances at Lewis, who’s still staring at him—his eyes startlingly blue. James has to look away again. “You’re tall, handsome, elegant . . .” Lewis falters. “I mean—Laura Hobson described you as my dishy sergeant. Gave you nine out of ten.”

James can feel patches of heat forming in his cheeks; he’s unsettled by the compliments; by the way Lewis seemed to suddenly realise what he was saying. He takes the easy route—piss taking. “Did she? Nine out of ten? And what mark did _you_ give me, sir? Just out of curiosity?”

Lewis shakes his head at him in mock exasperation. “I’ve been on enough workplace harassment training days to know that I shouldn’t be grading me subordinate officers, based on their attractiveness—or lack of. I’ve got the certificates and everything.”

“What a shining example of political correctness you are, sir.” James feels the tightness in his chest release a little. He’s told Lewis, and unpleasant though it’s been to go back over that night yet again, in a way he’s glad. He’s not surprised that Lewis took against Winters like he did—he can’t stand bullies, which is what Winters is, really. Perhaps the strength of Lewis’ reaction was a bit of a surprise; the heat in it. Anyway, they’re back in familiar, jokey territory, now.

Lewis chuckles. “Glad you’ve finally realised it, Sergeant.” He reaches for the remote. “Bit of telly?”

Never has the prospect of watching old episodes of _Top Gear_ seemed so appealing. “Wouldn’t mind.”

Lewis’ thumb hovers over the on button. “Don’t take it to heart, James. He may be a professor of medieval whatsit, but he’s a bloody fool.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Aye. I usually am.” Lewis pats him again: two little taps on his bicep; over before he can even fully register the warmth of Lewis’ fingers through his shirtsleeve. His attention keeps drifting back there though, all the time they’re watching TV, as if he can still somehow feel the press of Lewis’ fingertips. He lets the programme wash over him, and instead relives those two taps, again and again, like a heartbeat, against his skin.


	2. Two weeks later

They knew the Crown was going to be busy on such a lovely summer’s evening, but they hadn’t reckoned on it being quite so rammed. There’s a bit of room in the garden, once they manage to get a drink; _if_ they manage to get a drink: customers waiting to be served are four-deep, round the bar. It was Lewis’ idea to come here—he likes sitting in the garden, watching the river. Well, so does James for that matter, but he’s not convinced they’ll get there before closing time. James looks round the bar again, trying to find a spot where the queue’s not quite so bad.

“ _Shit_.” It’s out before he can stop himself. _Shit_.

“What?” Lewis immediately follows his gaze, trying to see what the problem is.

James nods to a man in the middle of a group of four or five, standing near the far end of the bar, nursing their drinks and getting in the way of people yet to be served. 

“Hugo Winters. Professor of medieval and renaissance English.” 

Robbie looks puzzled.

“My evil blind date. The guy who told me no one would ever fancy me.”

Lewis stares at Winters, incredulous. “ _That’s_ him?!”

James looks back at Winters, trying to see what Lewis sees, rather than the intimidating, misery-inducing sense of Winters he’s been carrying round with him—an almost constant, undermining companion—since the date. James takes a good look. Winters’ hair is thick and shaggy—obviously his pride and joy, going on the rather dramatic way he has of brushing it out of his eyes, which James had noticed on the date of doom, but which now, seeing it through Lewis’ eyes, looks rather silly; an affectation. The hair is a washed-out, dirty blond, but it’s got what look like artificial highlights running through it. James hadn’t noticed them in the dim lighting in the restaurant. It occurs to him that that might be one of the reasons Winters had insisted on that particular venue: the flattering lighting. 

James eyes him more critically. Winters isn’t the tallest man in his party, nor the best looking, but he is the most noticeable. He’s wearing a blue suit that’s just a shade too bright and a little too closely fitting, to blend in with the rest of the academics and businessmen standing around the bar. He’s holding court, telling some lengthy anecdote, loudly and animatedly—and doesn’t that bring back memories of the date. One hand is holding a glass of red wine. His other hand, he’s waving round as he talks: emphasising points he’s making, and showing off his chunky, gold watch and signet ring. 

There’s one other thing that makes Winters stand out; something again that James hadn’t been able to detect in the dim light of La Mûre: for a man with such light-coloured hair, he’s suspiciously tanned. Looking at him afresh, in the golden, evening light pouring through the pub windows, James would put good money on Winters being no stranger to a bottle of fake tan. _Jesus_.

“James, he’s a bloody buffoon! Look at him. How could you take his opinion on anything seriously? Least of all your looks? _Look_ at him, man!”

So James keeps looking, and for the first time in months, he’s able to catch a glimpse of Winters for what he actually is: just some flash, cocky bastard, who gets his jollies from making other people feel like shit. He must be a bloody nightmare of an academic supervisor. 

But then Winters looks up and sees them. He obviously recognises James because he smirks and turns to the man next to him and says something. They both laugh out loud, and just like that, the little spark of relief and amusement that Lewis had kindled in him, is snuffed out. Everything in his chest and guts contracts, as if his body is urging him to take up as little space as possible; trying to make him disappear. 

Winters says one last thing to his companion, and then starts making his way towards them.

“Oh God. He’s coming over.”

Lewis glances at James and then at Winters again. He leans closer, his shoulder brushing against James’. “It’s all right. He’s just some bloke who hasn’t been told often enough that the sun doesn’t shine out of his backside. What me mam used to call _all mouth and trousers_. It’ll be fine.” He sounds so confident; so unbothered. It must be a complete mystery to him why James can’t take all this in his stride.

“Yes, of course. You’re right. It’ll be fine.” But he doesn’t feel fine. He feels that old, familiar sense of being too tall and awkward; too exposed; too noticeable. He wishes he were anywhere but here, but there’s no option other than to endure whatever humiliation Winters sees fit to dish out, with as much feigned indifference as he can muster. Lewis, of course, won’t be taken in for a second, even if Winters is. 

They watch Winters push his way through the crowd, towards them. Lewis is still standing very close, his arm gently bumping against James’. So close, that James feels the shift in Lewis, when it happens; feels the moment when Lewis takes in a deep breath; when he takes his hands out of his pockets and straightens to his full height. When he somehow manages to make himself an even more substantial presence than usual. Then Lewis turns to James, his expression unreadable. 

“James; do you trust me?”

 _Odd question_. “Yes, of course.” He shouldn’t need to ask that.

Lewis steps right in front of him, facing him—intimate, even for them. “Good. Because I’m going to kiss you.” And he slides a hand round James’ waist and closes the little gap between them, so that James can feel Lewis’ chest, warm and solid, against his own.

“Yes.”

He says it without thinking; like it’s the most natural thing in the world; like Lewis always kisses him in pubs on summer evenings. 

“Yes.”

Lewis smiles and reaches up and strokes the back of James’ head and neck, and James finds himself sliding his arms round Lewis’ shoulders and pressing his hand flat against his back, pulling Lewis in even tighter against him . . . which makes Lewis sigh and rub his mouth against James’ jaw. And then Lewis tilts his head a little, and he finds James’ mouth, . . . and then they’re kissing . . . and it’s lovely; _really_ lovely. It’s gentle and unhurried; just warm presses of Lewis’ lips against his, again and again. Not hesitant exactly; it’s more like Lewis is just taking his time, getting to know the feel of James’ mouth. And then, _fuck_ , James feels the very tip of Lewis’ tongue trail delicately along his lower lip, and his insides turn liquid with arousal. _Fuck_. Lewis slides his tongue just barely between James’ lips, and explores the sensitive inner edges of them. It is _dizzyingly_ erotic. _God_. It feels like lying naked, in a sunlit brook, the water trickling over your bare skin; it makes James wonder, wildly, what sex with Lewis would be like; what it would be like if Lewis entered him with this much care; this slowly; this gently; and his toes curl in his work shoes, just thinking about it. 

The whole kiss probably only lasts half a minute at most, but when it ends, with Lewis sighing and kissing his cheek, it feels as if time must have stood still; that they’ve been in each other’s arms, kissing and melting, for hours.

When they move apart, Winters is there, next to them; watching them with a look of utter astonishment. Lewis turns to face Winters, but keeps his arm round James’ waist.

James flashes Winters the chilliest smile he can manage; and actually, kiss-drugged and with Lewis’ arm, heavy and warm, still round him, it _is_ a struggle to care much at all, right now, about Winters. “Hugo. What a pleasant surprise.”

“James. I thought I recognised you. Yes, this is”—his eyes move across to Lewis and then back again—“a surprise.”

Before James can find a reply, Lewis sticks his hand out. “Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis. James’ boyfriend.”

Oh. God: _boyfriend_. Not even an ambiguous _partner._

“Boyfriend?” Winters looks as stunned as James feels, though perhaps not as cheery. 

Lewis smiles, like he’s won top prize in the lottery. “Yes, I’m happy to say. It’s all very new. Just a month or so.” He turns to James for a moment, flashing him the cheekiest grin, before carrying on. “Yeah. Still in that early stage where all we want to do is shag like rabbits. Isn’t that right, Pet?” And he squeezes James’ hipbone, which he’s been idly stroking, while they’ve been talking.

 _Holy fuck!_ James has to stifle the urge to giggle. He smirks at Winters, making a show of rubbing his hip against Lewis’ hand. He drops his voice an octave. “Yes, darling. There is a _lot_ of shagging.”

For a moment, Winters is stunned into silence, looking back and forth between them, his mouth hanging open slightly. He looks gormless, and it’s completely delicious. But then the bastard rallies himself. He turns his full attention to Lewis and flashes a predatory smile. “You said you’re a detective inspector? That sounds rather important. To be honest, Robbie—it is Robbie, isn’t it?—I’m surprised someone like you—you’re obviously a substantial, successful man—would be interested in someone like James. I’d have thought you’d want to be seen with someone more in keeping with your status. I mean, he’s nice enough, but . . .” He drags his hand through his hair.

James feels the sharp breath that Lewis takes in; feels him shift his weight from one foot to the other. His first thought is that Lewis is going to punch Winters—and what a thrilling thought that is. But when it comes, the assault on Winters is verbal, not physical; and it’s utterly glorious.

“Oh, I think you’ve misunderstood the situation, _Hugo_.” Lewis does actually say the word _Hugo_ , but he manages to convey something closer to _dickhead_. “You seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that I’m the one doing James a favour, here. Bit surprised a smart bloke like you—Professor of medieval navel-gazing or whatever it is you do—can’t see that the shocker here is that a man as attractive as James, is willing to spend his precious time with me.” He sounds so convincing; so _grateful_. Even if it is just his governor having fun at Winters’ expense, James feels like he's soaring high over the Oxfordshire countryside; cut free from the weight of memories and humiliation he's been dragging around for months.

Winters apparently can't find anything to say in response, which is not a problem, because evidently, Lewis is just warming up.

“The thing about James, which was clear to me right from the start—apart from his kindness and his remarkable intelligence, of course, is that he’s naturally, timelessly stunning. There’s nothing cheap or flashy about him. I mean, he turns heads everywhere we go—I can’t tell you how proud I am to be seen out and about round Oxford with him. But I reckon he’d look equally at home as a knight in a Pre-Raphaelite painting, or as a sculpture by Michelangelo.” Lewis pulls James in a little tighter against him. “He’s like a work of art—and _I_ get to kiss him.” Lewis still has his arm wrapped possessively round James’ waist, his hand resting on his hip. He turns and smiles at James, the lines around his eyes softening, his eyes astonishingly blue and warm. As if James’ heart wasn’t racing enough, already. 

Lewis turns back to Winters. “I suppose the bottom line is that some blokes have the good taste to appreciate a man like James.” He looks pointedly at Winters. “And some idiots are more interested in artifice and image.”

Then he squeezes James’ hip. “We done here, Pet? I can think of places I’d rather be.”

James slowly looks Winters up and down. “Yeah; there’s nothing of interest here. Let’s go.”

And so Lewis steers him through the throngs of noisy drinkers towards the door. There are students whooping and shouting, and tourists taking selfies, but all James really registers is the heat of Lewis’ hand, flat against the small of his back, propelling him out of the pub.

They make their way through the car park towards the BMW. James feels Lewis’ hand drop away, and though he knows it’s ridiculous, and that apart from anything else, Lewis needs the hand to fish his keys out of his pocket, James still feels the absence of Lewis’ touch as a kind of ache.

When they get to the car, Lewis doesn’t unlock it. He fiddles with the keys, turning them over in his hand a couple of times. “D’you fancy a bit of air?” He nods towards the path that runs down to the riverbank. He sounds casual enough, though there’s a bit of colour in his cheeks. Maybe it’s just the warm evening and having been in a crowded pub? Or maybe, it’s because he’s just kissed his sergeant into a breathless, needy mess. How would James know? He’s always been rubbish at this sort of thing. Is _d’you fancy a bit of air_ actually code for _can I kiss you again_? Does an invitation for a stroll along the river actually mean _I want to hold you and kiss you and smile softly at you, like you’re the most precious thing in the world_? Maybe. For all his supposed intelligence, James truly doesn’t know. But God, it’s worth finding out, isn’t it? 

“Yeah, some air would be good. Winters was wearing enough aftershave to fell an elephant at fifty metres. Be nice to get that out of my respiratory system.” 

Lewis chuckles. “Between that aftershave and the hair products, that bloke’s a walking bloody fire hazard. Wouldn’t have blamed someone for turning a fire extinguisher on him; as a precautionary measure, of course.”

“And there was I thinking you never paid attention in those health and safety lectures.”

Lewis shoots him a look that says _you underestimate me, Sergeant_. Which seems fair enough, on several counts.

They walk along the path to the river in companionable silence, and in many ways, it’s just like any of the other hundreds of walks they’ve taken together, over the years. Well, it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that James can still feel Lewis’ mouth against his. And he can remember the warmth of Lewis’ arm around him. And the way Lewis discussed their imaginary sex life as easily as if he were talking about the joys of a sunny day. And the way Lewis had smiled at him; and called him Pet. _Pet_. James says it to himself over and over as they walk, his mind offering it to him in Lewis’ gruff, northeastern voice. _Oh, God._

They reach the river and lean against the waist-high stone wall that edges the bank there. They stand in silence for a while, watching the swifts darting low over the water, scooping up tiny insects. 

Eventually, Lewis taps the top of the wall with one hand. “Okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

Lewis nods. “Sorry about that, back at the pub. Didn’t warm to him, for some reason.” He shoots James a bit of a wry smile. 

James smiles back. “Nothing to apologise for, I assure you. You did me a favour.”

“Sorry I took over, though. Should have let you speak for yourself.”

“No, no. I . . . thank you. Those things you said.” 

Lewis’ left hand is moving on the wall; his strong fingers exploring a seam between two capping stones; running back and forth along the place where the two stones meet. James can’t tear his eyes away. Lewis rubs the pad of his index finger across a bit of crumbling mortar. “Nothing that isn’t true.”

And _Jesus Christ_ , why does James have to be such a bloody pedant? His mouth is open before he can stop himself. “Well, you’re not actually my boyfriend. And the whole rabbits thing . . .” He trails off, mortified. 

Lewis says nothing, and James risks a quick, sideways glance. Lewis’ cheeks are blazing.

“No, I suppose—” Lewis sighs. “I meant, well—the art thing.”

 _God._ “You were serious? I thought you were just making stuff up, to piss Winters off.”

Lewis’ hand continues its careful exploration of the stonework. “As it happens, I was telling the truth . . . to piss him off.”

“You think I look like a work of art? Sure you’re not thinking of a Picasso or a Lucian Freud?”

Lewis pats the wall decisively, and turns to face him. “Nah. I’m pretty certain I mean Michelangelo.” He smiles, fondly. “You have no idea how lovely you are, have you?”

 _Jesus._ James swallows. “Well, I had no idea _you_ thought so, that’s for sure.”

“No, well. Not the kind of thing a DI says to his bagman, is it?”

He can’t argue with that. They stand in silence, gazing at each other, and the seconds tick by. James wants to kiss him, so much. “DIs don’t usually kiss their bagmen, either.”

Lewis is still smiling. “I suppose not. Well, maybe in Italy—a peck on each cheek?” 

“Interesting thought, sir. Though I suspect even in Italy there’s a police regulation about the use of tongues.”

James had been aiming for facetiousness, but Lewis’ smile fades and he rubs his hand over his mouth; that mouth that half an hour ago had been pressed against James’ own; soft and warm and thrilling. “I got a bit carried away; I’m sorry. Was it too much?”

“Actually—it wasn’t enough.” 

Lewis’ eyes widen. “You wanted more?”

“Couldn’t you tell?” James closes the space between them.

“Well, you might have been pretending a bit—to wind Winters up. Wasn’t sure.” He looks at James steadily. “Hoped you weren’t pretending.”

James shakes his head, emphatically. “I wasn’t pretending. I wanted more. _I still do._ ”

A smile slowly develops on Lewis’ face as he takes it in. He nods. “Thank God for that! I spent the whole ruddy walk here wondering what would happen if I tried to kiss you again.”

And then they’ve got their arms round each other, and James ducks down and whispers, “Shall we find out?” and Lewis curves a hand round James’ cheek and jaw and brings their mouths together. He rubs his lips slowly back and forth across James’ lips, and it’s meltingly, hypnotically arousing. Standing by the river’s edge, in the gathering twilight, held tight in Lewis’ arms, and this slow, back and forth drag of Lewis’ mouth, as if Lewis has all the time in the world; as if there’s nothing he would rather be doing than spending the rest of the evening making James stupefied with desire. James can barely breathe, he wants this so much. By the time Lewis takes the tip of James’ tongue between his lips and gently sucks, James is wrecked. 

They kiss and kiss, their hands sliding inside each other’s jackets, their tongues pushing into each other’s mouths—everything driven by a need to join and merge and be as deep inside each other as they possibly can be . . . and it’s incredible . . . and nowhere near enough.

Eventually, Lewis breaks the kiss. He lets out a long sigh. “Think maybe we need to be somewhere a bit more private.” He rubs his nose against James’ cheek. “What d’ya think?”

 _Yes! Yes._ “You’re probably right. It wouldn’t do to get arrested for lewd behaviour.”

Lewis laughs and James thinks he’s never seen him looking more lovely than he does right now: happy and flushed and with his beautiful eyes dark with desire. 

“Will you come home with me, James? To bed?”

James can’t seem to stop smiling. “Yes. Definitely, yes.” 

Lewis smiles back at him and nods, and a look passes between them—an unspoken understanding, an acknowledgement of the utter rightness of everything that’s happened this evening. They turn to walk back to the car, and Lewis takes James’ hand in his, and James’ heart—James’ heart is airborne; a swift, wildly beating its wings, rocketing up into the dusk.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the fic is a line from "The Face That Launch'd a Thousand Ships" by Christopher Marlowe, a poem that I'm sure Hugo Winters would have been very familiar with!


End file.
